


this theoretical “thought” that allegedly “counts”

by AmiKanon



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives & Are Friends, Gen, Lee Yut-Lung & Okumura Eiji are Best Friends, Motorcycle Rides, References to Canon-Typical CSA and Alcohol Abuse, air jordan collector shorter wong, yuesing-typical bickering, yugioh cards as a metaphor for growing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29714277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmiKanon/pseuds/AmiKanon
Summary: Yut-Lung goes shopping for Sing’s birthday present. But because he’s Lee Yut-Lung and every problem is a catastrophic event, he contacts, like, every single person he knows for help.
Relationships: Background Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Lee Yut-Lung & Okumura Eiji, Lee Yut-Lung & Shorter Wong, Lee Yut-Lung/Sing Soo-Ling
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	this theoretical “thought” that allegedly “counts”

**Author's Note:**

> golzine and yut-lung’s brothers are mentioned to all be dead but it never says how so just know its because i stepped in. i handled it

A ringtone buzzes, pulling Eiji from his slumber. 

Before he can fully gather himself, the tufts of blonde beneath his nose rustle within his embrace. 

“What the…” A voice rasps. 

He presses his lips to the crown of his head. “Just a call,” He whispers, and reaches over Ash for his phone on the nightstand, “from, uh,” he squints through the mist in his eyes, “...Yue.” 

“Oh.” Ash says, already having lost interest. Eiji breathes a small laugh in response. 

He shuffles out of bed, silently mourning the sudden loss of warmth, and greets Yut-Lung. Or _attempts_ to, before he’s interrupted by the boy in question. 

“Eiji!” A voice barks. He nearly drops the phone, gingerly placing it back to his ear after a hard flinch. He's still talking, loudly, “This is an emergency. Time sensitive. You need to—I don’t, I _can’t_ —” he stammers, trailing off in Cantonese. 

A panic attack? He’s helped with those before. Suddenly more alert, he mentally runs down the steps to calm someone down. “Yue,” he says gently, “I need you to breathe with me _,_ ” 

“I don’t need your stupid breathing exercises!” Yut-Lung snaps, volume spiking through his tinny cellphone speakers. So he’s present enough to get impatient, not a panic attack then. Eiji’s shoulders relax. Just Yut-Lung being Yut-Lung. “Get over here! _Now!_ ” 

“Now?” he asks. Yut-Lung is talking far too fast for far too early. “Why?” 

There’s a long, eerie silence before his phone starts beeping. Yut-Lung already hung up. Great. 

The temptation to pretend this fever dream of a conversation never happened and to go back to bed, back to _Ash,_ tugs at every limb. The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet, pale winter dawn peeking through the blinds. 

Weighing the cost between cutting his sleeping short or angering Yut-Lung, he almost crawls back to bed until—ah, right. This is Yut-Lung he’s dealing with, who’s physically incapable of being angry in a normal, _non-dramatic_ way. If Eiji ignored him, he’d probably do that thing toddlers do for attention where they hold their breath and try to die. 

He’s a good friend. He’d _really_ rather be sleeping though. He grits his teeth. _He’s a good friend._

With a groan, Eiji trudges to the bathroom to make himself halfway presentable. Yut-Lung mentioned an “emergency” but never bothered to elaborate what itwas _._ A slight worry creeps in as he puts socks on, but logically, if it were, say, a _life-threatening_ emergency, Yut-Lung has bodyguards for that. He’s not bleeding out and dying, Eiji reminds himself, just being dramatic. Chipped a nail or something. He’s _fine._

“Where are you going?” A voice says, muffled from the heap of blankets. 

“Yue’s, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” He says, hopping on one foot as he shucks the other one into a shoe. 

Ash scowls, made far more endearing than intimidating with his mussed hair intact, and rolls back into the mattress. 

Eiji steps out of the condo, immediately gets bit by the blistering air of December, runs back in to grab a scarf, steps back out, and _then_ calls a taxi. 

Yut-Lung is fine _,_ he reminds himself as he nearly falls asleep in the cab. If the emergency were as time sensitive as Yut-Lung made it sound with all the screaming, and he were hypothetically dying a slow and painful death, Eiji would _not_ be the first person he’d call. 

Honestly, if Yut-Lung had one final phone call he’d almost certainly spend it on Sing. Get the final word in one of their numerous arguments before dying just to piss Sing off one last time. 

Huh. It’s actually scary how easily he can picture that. 

“Wow,” He murmurs once he arrives, guided inside by the servants. The parlor is in complete disarray. It’s like a hurricane tore through the room. Or a crazed teenager. 

“Eiji!” the culprit shouts, entering his vision from seemingly nowhere, and charges into him for a bone-crushing hug, “Thank _god_ you’re here,” 

He wheezes within the embrace and reluctantly pats him on the back. “Wha—less tight please, _thank you_ —what’s this emergency?” 

Yut-Lung pulls back, finally giving Eiji a chance to look at him. And frankly, he’s a mess. His makeup is in disarray, smudged eyeliner and foundation coming off that some of his freckles are peeking through. Did he even sleep at all? Though miraculously, Eiji notes, his hair is still neatly combed. 

“Oh Eiji,” Yut-Lung whines, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his cheeks, “my life is a nightmare,” 

Yut-Lung continues to fake cry, expecting to be showered with all due sympathy. It’s too early for this, Eiji just waits for him to continue. 

After a few seconds of no reaction, he sighs and bitterly refocuses on the original topic. “I… don’t know what to get Sing for his birthday.” 

“Ah.” _Seriously?_ “So you called me all this way at,” he glances at his phone screen, “six in the morning. Because of a birthday present.” 

“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is there an issue with that?” 

They stare at each other. 

Vaguely, he recalls Sing’s birthday on the horizon, marked on the calendar on their fridge. He hasn’t gotten the chance to decide a present yet, but to be called all this way because of it? 

As their silent standoff continues, the adrenaline from the chaos of this morning finally wears off and the original tiredness sets back in, heavy in Eiji’s bones. 

He breaks eye contact to stifle a yawn. “Can I sleep on your couch? We can work this out later.” 

Yut-Lung grimaces at his seemingly outrageous request, nose scrunching cutely as he mulls it over. “Fine. Extra blankets are in the cabinet. I... will prepare coffee.” 

As he storms off to the kitchen, his hair swishes like a tail at every step, highly reminiscent of a kitten. 

The door shuts. 

Finally, a moment of tranquility. 

He flops unceremoniously onto the couch, melting into Yut-Lung’s dryer-fresh pillows as sleep catches up with him once again. 

* * *

Yut-Lung pours the ground coffee into the filter just the way Eiji taught him to, eventually falling into familiar motions. Making coffee is easy, like brewing a poison. Except not intended to hurt anybody. 

Idly, he runs his fingers through his ponytail, fidgety as he waits for the coffee to filter and for Eiji to get up. 

Maybe he would have called later if he remembered that Eiji was someone with a legitimate sleep schedule. But he’s not really that sorry. His predicament is far too important. 

December 18. Sing’s birthday. One week short of Christmas. Sing mentioned, once, that people usually lumped his birthday and Christmas presents together since they were so close in date. 

“That’s…” Yut-Lung had said, baffled, “so cheap,” If he ever made a misstep like thatin his past life _,_ lumped two presents into one for one of his guests, it’d be taken as an insult. His brothers would have flayed him alive. 

But Sing just rolled his eyes and laughed, light and bubbly like those soft drinks he liked so much. “It’s just nice getting gifts in the first place. ‘Sides, the ones I _did_ get were pretty thoughtful. On my thirteenth birthday, er, Christmas, Shorter got me a butterfly knife. He remembered how cool I thought _his_ was and got me my own even though he was saving for new sneakers. Lao confiscated it, like, _immediately_ , and I ended up finding it half a year later on a tall shelf, but it was still pretty cool.” 

Sing’s features grew ever softer as he recounted all the tricks he learned with it, subconsciously rubbing at where the nicks on his hands used to be from all the mistakes. 

That expression on his face. It doesn’t make sense, it’s just a knife. How much could those be anyway? If he wanted, he could buy a million of those for Sing without it even scratching a mark on his savings. 

All the presents his brothers ever made him deliver were more symbolic than anything. A jade pendant worth millions, or a rare artifact his brothers definitely poached as a show of power. Just another chesspiece in the game of the underworld. 

Yet in comparison, some dumb, cheap knife Shorter bought is able to make Sing smile that hard. There’s something he’s not getting, and it’s irritating the more he thinks about it. He can do one way better for Sing if he really wanted to. 

But maybe, what he _really_ wants is to be the one that puts that same expression of wonder on Sing’s face. He’s selfish. He’ll admit that. 

He blinks. The coffee’s ready. 

He picks up the cups and carries them back to the parlor. 

Most people lump Sing’s birthday with Christmas. Lee Yut-Lung is not most people. 

* * *

They sit at a table typically reserved for high-profile conference meetings, coffee on Eiji’s left and a box of imported Japanese snacks that Yut-Lung refuses to admit he bought for him specifically on his right. 

“Okay, presents,” Eiji starts, still a little incredulous that this is the reason behind everything, “what do you have so far?” 

Yut-Lung is silent for a few seconds before speaking, voice grave, “Do you think Sing needs a helicopter. Or a private jet. Either that or I get him a new house.” 

He almost spits his coffee over Yut-Lung’s table but heroically downs the drink with a cough instead. A laugh. “Excuse me?” 

Unless Yut-Lung managed to get a sense of humor overnight or… no. Yut-Lung’s never looked so earnest. He’s not joking. 

“I don’t know what he _wants!”_ he flails, “I asked him earlier this month and he just said, ‘Oh, my birthday? _Toooootally_ didn’t realize!’” he says, giving his best attempt at a Sing impression which somehow also means making Sing sound as dumb as possible. He composes himself, “Anyway, he just completely _forgot_ the question, because he’s stupid. And every time I ask now, he just shrugs. So I _still_ don’t know what to do.” 

Right. Yut-Lung’s never shopped for a friend’s birthday present before. Or, according to what he’s heard of Yut-Lung’s past, even hadfriends to buy presents for to begin with. He’ll have to go slow with him here. 

Honestly, Eiji’s go-to gift for when he doesn’t know what to buy is a pack of socks. Mundane but useful. Frequently overlooked but a necessary article. Most people are satisfied with it; it’s perfectly decent. But there's a feeling that’s not going to be a good enough answer. 

Eiji hums thoughtfully, “If he’s so stupid, why are you stressing over what kind of present he wants in the first place?” 

“I just—” he stammers, “My present has to be good _,_ Eiji. I _never_ do things half-assed. If I get him something and he ends up hating it, he’ll never let me live it down.” he punctuates his sentences with a pointed finger tapping angrily on the table, “My _dignity_ is on the line.” 

So it’s a matter of ego. Eiji mentally runs down his top ten list of inoffensive gift ideas. “Why not just give money then? Let Sing get what he wants himself if you’re so unsure.” 

It’s a reasonable suggestion, but Yut-Lung scowls like he’s expecting Eiji to figure out why that can’t work. When he doesn’t answer in the allotted time of two seconds, Yut-Lung speaks frustratedly, “Recall when Golzine and my step-brothers passed away! Afterwards, their accounts were transferred to their next surviving heirs, me and Ash, yes?” 

Eiji nods. Even in the rush of reallocating everything Golzine stood for, Ash still found the time to take him out to a fancy restaurant the day they found out. 

Yut-Lung closes his eyes and presses a manicured finger to his temple. “I _know_ Ash, and I _know_ he’s been letting his close friends, you guys, tap into those accounts whenever you want to satisfy your every whim.” 

And yeah… that’s true enough. Eiji still has his own savings to live off of, so it’s not something he thinks about often, but Ash _did_ share the login credentials to his companions—his _family_ , if they ever wanted to use it. 

“It’s only a matter of time before Shorter realizes he can buy infinite Lamborghinis to crash into walls with,” Yut-Lung mutters, “Anyway! By extension, through his association with Ash Lynx, Sing _also_ has that money at his disposal. Money means next to nothing now. Ergo, so will my gift. Come on!” he snaps his fingers inches away from Eiji’s face, somehow jolting him even more awake. 

“Yue—“ 

“My gift has to be something!And quite frankly, my situation is made even _worse_ because I do not have the excuse of monetary limitations. So…” he sinks back into his chair, finishing lamely, “...helicopter.” 

“Helicopter,” Eiji echoes. 

Yut-Lung nods, expression desperate. 

Maybe he grasps the extent of Yut-Lung’s dilemma now. “Alright. First of all… don’t do that.” he taps a finger to his chin, “If you want the gift to be meaningful, maybe you should make him something. Then it’ll be one of a kind, more personal.” 

He looks dumbfounded, “Eiji, I don’t think Sing would appreciate poison.” 

“I didn’t _say_ poison!” 

“Well, I can’t really make anything else!” 

He groans, “I was thinking more like, knitting a sweater.” 

Yut-Lung rubs his temples. “Ugh, that is so _you_ ,”—and what is _that_ supposed to mean—“I’m not making a corny sweater. Sing won’t wear that. I won’t _let_ him wear that.” 

Eiji nods empathetically, “Maybe start with a scarf then?” 

“No!” 

“Alright, what about something smaller. Mittens?” 

“That’s not the issue— Agh! You’re just teasing me now!” 

“I’m just throwing out ideas,” he shrugs, holding in a smile, “weave him a basket?” 

“Eiji!” 

“Ever try origami? There’s this belief in Japan that if you fold enough paper cranes—” 

Yut-Lung is halfway towards pelting him with a bag of chips before an alarm starts ringing. 

“Oops, that would be mine,” Eiji says as he slips out his phone and turns it off. “I need to get breakfast going and wake Skipper up for school.” 

Yut-Lung is taken aback by the sudden shift in gears. He stomps his foot. “Wh—but we barely got anywhere!” 

He sighs. Between Yut-Lung and Skipper, Skipper is infinitely an easier child to deal with. 

Eiji puts his arms out, offering a parting hug that Yut-Lung reluctantly accepts. “I’ll help you later, I promise.” 

Yut-Lung nods weakly against his shoulder. 

“And remember!” He pulls back, gently flicking Yut-Lung on the forehead and earning a startled _yowch_ in response, “If you ever call me _or_ my sweaters corny again, I _will_ be getting you exactly that for Christmas.” Besides, Yut-Lung can say whatever he wants, but he always ends up wearing those sweaters he buys him anyway. 

He rolls his eyes and impatiently shoos Eiji away himself. 

So Yut-Lung watches Eiji walk out the door and back to his own day-to-day obligations, left with more questions than answers. 

* * *

The day his brothers died, the world stopped. He didn’t mourn—god, he wasn’t even the slightest bit sorry—but continuing to live after that was like relearning how to walk. 

It wasn’t something he dwelled on often. 

That day, he woke up later than usual, no older brothers to bark assignments at him like a master to their dog. Instead, a servant politely explained to him that his six brothers were out of commission and that as the last surviving heir, he’d be the new head of the family. 

How was he supposed to feel? Victorious? 

He’d waited for this moment for a decade, molded his entire life around this ending. But the satisfaction he chased after for so long never came. It was funny, really. Happiness was something he’d given up years ago. It was idiotic to expect something that had grown so foreign and unfamiliar to just magically return _._

How would he feel if he were still six years old, knowing this was how it ended, that he’d be scraped empty and corrupted past the point of recognition just to survive this long. 

Who he was ten years ago was a separate person entirely. He wasn’t _born_ corrupted by this hatred for his brothers, a hatred bigger than his own body. Wanting them dead was just a side effect. 

All he really wanted was his mom back. 

His new subordinates expected him to quickly take up the mantle and lead them the way they’d always been led. And he _could_. He knew how this game was played. He was bred for it. This was all he was trained to be. 

But instead, he shut himself off and threw open the alcohol cabinet. He was unbothered in his solitude, too, none of those servants had the nerve to piss him off so early in his reign. 

So, with nobody left in the world to interrupt him, he knocked back the first of many bottles. And that was it. 

For him, the world really did stop that day. Merely alternating between emptiness and subsequent frustration that this emptiness was the only thing he could feel anymore could hardly qualify as “living”. 

In all senses of the word, he was _free_ now. But the very thought of it was sour. What freedom? Revenge was the single tether that kept him to reality. Freedom like a moon suddenly losing its planet and spiralling out of orbit, maybe. He was still the same in all the ways that mattered. 

Justice was dealt. What else was left for him? He wasn’t supposed to live this long, just tarnishing his mother’s memory the more he let himself decay. 

Somewhere beyond the parlor doors, the world continued to turn without him. But in this room, he was underwater, murky thoughts slipping between his fingers. It didn’t really matter how much time passed, he’d resigned himself to feeling this lethargic forever, finally rotting from the inside out. 

And then Sing broke in. 

Of course, for everything to come back to Sing Soo-Ling. 

He was out of place, clearly. Dirty sneakers tracking all over his antique carpets. Sing had a habit of barging into areas where he was of no concern. Yet with his presence came a gust of fresh air in the blight of his closed-off room. Dear god, he was being resuscitated. 

No greeting. No explanation. Just a motorcycle helmet thrown at him and a voice calling out, “We’re going on a ride.” 

He still can’t place why he followed after him so easily. But with his arms wrapped loosely around Sing’s waist as the streetlights in his vision sped into a single line, it would be a lie if he said he regretted it. 

His brothers forbid him from learning how to drive a motorcycle. Unnecessary, they reasoned, all he’d ever be was an escort anyway. The most he’d done before was ride sidesaddle. 

The violet horizon stretched endless as Sing drove farther and farther away from the city lights. It’d been so long since he’d seen the sky. Crisp air so foreign it stung the inside of his lungs. With the expanse of the boundless roads around him, he felt overwhelmingly _small_ for the first time in a long while. 

A clump of traffic paused them momentarily, and Sing finally turned his head to look back at him. 

“We were worried about you,” he said, like it was that easy. Like worrying about him was a normal thing to do. 

Even with the helmet on, Yut-Lung averted his eyes. “Hm.” 

They rode on. 

(“My brothers are dead. I didn’t make any plans for the _after_ ,” Yut-Lung whispered, the thoughts heavy on his mind finally slipping out. His words would be lost in the wind anyway, “there’s nothing for me after this.” 

But Sing just smiled over his shoulder, that toothy grin that scrunched up his cheeks like he knew something Yut-Lung didn’t, “Are you kidding me? This is where the fun part begins.”) 

The breeze in his hair. The golden sunset illuminating their backs. A boy who doesn’t want anything from him. Maybe there’s something after all. 

Later, Sing will offer to teach him how to ride a motorcycle himself. And maybe he’ll say yes. But for now, he’ll take this excuse to stay beside him for a little while longer. 

* * *

He jolts up with a new idea. “A motorcycle! A new one!” A few Chang Dai patrons startle at his outburst. 

Shorter shakes his head. “‘Fraid not. The entire gang pitched in to get his motorcycle the second he was big enough to step foot on one. It’s _sentimental_. You can get him a bike better in every way—hell, one that shoots _lasers_ —and as much as he’ll know it’s better for him, he won’t part with the one he has now,” he sniffs, “that’s just how he is.” 

“Tch.” It’s insane how much Sing can annoy him even when he’s not here. Yut-Lung narrows his eyes, frustrated. What does that even mean _, sentimental_. How cliché. 

Shorter rubs the stubble on his chin. “You could, like, pay for upgrades on it, maybe?” 

“My gift is _not_ just going to be an offshoot of someone else’s.” He scoffs. 

But damn, he was _sure_ he’d get somewhere with that motorcycle idea, but he’d already been beaten to it. 

Just from knowing the gifts Sing received, he’s quickly taking note that so many people are already looking out for Sing. It’s not like he doesn’t _deserve_ it or anything, but it’s just… unfortunate competition. 

“What about food? Buy him a bag of those luxury chocolates or something. The way to a man’s stomach is through his heart, you know!” 

Yut-Lung presses his hand to his face. “The other way.” 

“What?” 

“You said ‘the way to a man’s—‘ you know what, nevermind.” 

Food as a present though… 

He only has to think about it for a second. “Nope.” 

“What! Why?” 

“I’m not giving him something he can consume in a day! He can’t just _forget_ my present. I won’t allow it.” 

“Oh my god,” Shorter groans, wobbling the table as he drapes his arms across it, deflated, “you’re so _picky_.” 

Yut-Lung just harrumphs. Not his fault Shorter can’t rise to his standards. 

“It’s sweet how much you care about getting something he’ll want, though. Who would have guessed, under all your insults and prickliness, when it comes to him, you really _are_ whipped.” 

He freezes. “What does that mean, ‘whipped’?” 

“Ugh. Nevermind.” 

Hands behind his head, Shorter leans back on the chair the way Nadia hates. “Just… a motorcycle? Or a helicopter? Don’t don’t do that. In fact!” he slams back down, chair legs hitting the floor with a bang, reinvigorated with a new idea, “I lied earlier. The fastest way to a man’s heart is through his feet!” 

Shorter has lost it. “What.” 

“You should get him some kicks!” Shorter notices the question on his tongue before he voices it. “Shoes.” Oh. 

Shoes… he’s _seen_ Shorter’s sneaker collection and frankly, he doesn’t get the appeal and never will. “That’s _so_ what youwould get him,” Yut-Lung grimaces, “I’m not you.” 

“What the hell, you don’t have to look so _disgusted_ ,” Shorter pouts, “Why’d you even ask for my help if you’re just gonna argue the entire time? I swear, you’re the most uncooperative...” 

Yut-Lung is suddenly overcome with the strong urge to whack Shorter upside the head. 

“Ow! What was that for?!” 

He crosses his arms. “Being stupid.” 

Eventually, Nadia yells for Shorter to get back in the kitchen (“Your break ended ten minutes ago!”). He and Yut-Lung go back to their usual routine of yelling at each other through the pickup window. 

In the beats of silence, Yut-Lung puts his head in his hands as he contemplates this new information. 

Shoes, huh? He can picture buying Sing those light-up shoes he’s seen toddlers wear when their moms take them to the grocery store. Sing probably gets his shoes in the kids’ section anyway. 

He might as well get him those shoes with the velcro straps while he’s at it, _Here, since I’ve generously accounted for how you’re too stupid to tie them yourself,_ he’d say. 

A voice cuts through his thoughts. _Don’t be rude, Yue, this is a birthday present!_ It sounds faintly like Eiji. He groans. 

Shoes probably wouldn’t even be the right thing to get Sing anyway. It’s too easy an answer for a question that’s been plaguing him this bad. It’s a trick. There’s got to be something more complex he’s not thinking of yet. All Yut-Lung _knows_ is complex problems with convoluted answers. 

* * *

He ends up staying long enough to help Nadia close up shop. The winter sun had already set sometime while Yut-Lung wasn’t looking. With all the Chinatown streetlights and buildings illuminating the night, frustration tenses his body. 

He’s wasted another day. The night is here and he still has no ideas on what to get. 

In a fit of desperation, he flips his phone open, scrolls to the third contact listed as “do NOT answer”, and hits call before he can overthink it. 

“Ash Lynx!” He shouts the second the call goes through. Faintly, he remembers Sing complaining about how he never lets anyone talk first when he calls. _Ugh. Focus._ He grips the phone tighter in his hand.“I need help finding a present for Sing’s birthday.” 

“As I’ve heard,” Ash says dryly. He sounds exasperated. That makes both of them. Some static. “So you’re asking _me?_ ” 

“Ah,” Yut-Lung pauses, remembering himself, “fair point.” 

He hangs up. 

Good talk. 

* * *

He’s half asleep on Shorter’s couch, the one with all the holes, as Shorter gestures wildly at the tv illuminating the otherwise dark room. They’re in the process of marathoning some trashy c-drama he’s been ranting about for weeks. 

Mentally, Yut-Lung is still frustrated, but the frustration is only rivaled by the tiredness he feels. Turns out, pacing your mansion until six in the morning instead of sleeping will do that to you. Perhaps he should know that by now. 

It’s _supposed_ to be a sleepover. But unfortunately, Shorter has this game where he’ll shake Yut-Lung awake and point at any random actor with a long wig and go, “Oh my god! That one looks like you!” It got old the first time, but it doesn’t stop Shorter from doing it every ten minutes. 

Shorter likes to call these sleepovers their _Boy’s Nights_. Yut-Lung doesn’t necessarily feel like a boy, to be completely honest, but somehow he never seems to decline. 

His phone rings the same moment Shorter jumps out of his seat, jostling the entire sofa with him. “Yue, holy shit—this one, I _promise,_ looks exactly like you,” 

Yut-Lung doesn’t even spare the screen a glance. “No they don’t. And can you shut up? Someone’s calling me,” 

Shorter does the exact opposite, draping over Yut-Lung’s shoulder to look at the receiver. “Eiji, huh? Aren’t _you_ the man of the hour,” he teases. 

“Shove off, this is important,” He says, standing up with cellphone in hand. 

He steps into the hallway, the faint sound of Shorter talking at the tv still audible from the outside. That phrase, _man of the hour_ , lingers as he answers the call. Hm. He really should address those gender issues someday. 

He puts the phone up to his ear. Eiji’s voice comes through clear and soft, “I think I have a solution to your problems.” 

He smirks despite himself, “A bold claim, let’s hear it.” 

“Well,” he starts, “what did Sing get _you_ for your birthday?” 

Unprepared for a sudden line of questioning, he has to think back on that one. 

He remembers his birthday. The last day of June. He hadn’t told anybody when it was, and ended up spending it like any other day, so unremarkable he barely remembers it. 

Sing only found out about it weeks later when Yut-Lung mentioned his age offhandedly, Sing interrupting another one of Yut-Lung’s monologues with, “Hey, since when did you turn seventeen?!” 

Sing invited him out for dinner a few days later as belated birthday celebration. Yut-Lung turned him down at first, several times actually, but Sing stubbornly refused to let the damn subject go. Some garbage about how he couldn’t just “sit back and do nothing for something so important.” 

That relentless persistence Sing had— _continues to have—_ towards the things he cares about is… incredibly annoying. After a week of bickering, Yut-Lung finally caved just to get him to shut up. 

So that’s how they ended up at Chang Dai in the middle of July, per Sing’s insistence. Amidst the bustle of the tables surrounding them, their own dishes scraped clean, and a warm, unfamiliar emotion setting in his chest, Sing had dug around in his pocket and taken out— 

“A hairpin.” 

Eiji hums, satisfied, and Yut-Lung can picture the smile on his face just from the lilt of his voice. “And were you upset by it? Offended that he got you something so small _and_ something you already own so much of, at that?” 

“What the hell—of course not!” 

“But by _your_ logic,” Eiji presses on like he’s genuinely curious, “you should hate it. Didn’t you want something grander? A, what was it, helicopter?” 

“Just make your point already,” Yut-Lung groans, impatient. As a child, he’d never experienced the feeling of a kindergarten grade teacher trying to slowly, _irritatingly_ lead him through a basic math problem because he was privately tutored. But this conversation feels close enough. 

Eiji laughs at his expense. “Yue, just explain one thing for me. Why didn’t you hate his present?” 

“Ugh, because—!” He sputters, realizing he doesn’t know where his sentence is going the second he starts it. His shoulders slump. “Because… he _knows_ how much effort I put into my hair,” 

And it's true. Sing has made fun of him before for how much time he spends brushing and massaging oils into his hair. But to be fair, it’s not much of a secret. When the only thing he has left of mother is the resemblance of her, of course he’d invest so much into it. 

He realizes his hand has drifted to the exact spot on his head where the pin would be if he were wearing it. 

“And,” Yut-Lung continues, picturing the encrusted sapphires designed to look like flower petals on the hairpin itself, “he remembered how I was looking for an accessory to match my blue hanfu.” 

The sapphires were probably knockoffs. There’s no way Sing would have been able to afford that in such a short period of time. Yut-Lung almost _hopes_ they were knockoffs, for Sing’s sake. But nevertheless, he’d _remembered_. 

“How could I hate it,” Yut-Lung says, “when it was so thoughtful?” 

“There you go.” 

“...Huh?” 

An amused huff rumbles gently through his cellphone speaker. “You’re stressing too much about this. He noticed all those things about you, right? You notice things about him too. Trust yourself. You _know_ him.” 

Does he? Yut-Lung wishes he were as confident as how Eiji sounds. What Yut-Lung _does_ know is that he’s self-centered even when he’s not trying to be. He doesn’t even know Sing’s favorite color. 

But he does know his favorite soda (an obscure, imported brand that only a few Asian markets carry). And his favorite hoodie (the black one with a yellow stripe that he wears so often it’s starting to fray at the sleeves). Or how he’ll only chew gum if it’s citrus flavored. 

But it’s all just random bits and pieces. Nothing substantial enough to help. 

He sighs. “I will… think on that.” 

And before he loses the nerve, he speaks again. “By the way, Eiji? Ugh,” he croaks, feeling like a cat retching out a hairball, “...thank you.” 

“Of course.” Eiji says, voice warm, “Anytime, Yue.” 

* * *

He goes through the list. A helicopter, no. A private jet, no. A new house, no. A motorcycle, _no._

Shoes are a hardno. The temptation to be mean about it is too strong. 

Snacks might have been a good suggestion, but he’s selfish. He wants something permanent. 

Clothes, maybe? But he’s taken Sing shopping _multiple_ times, and he’s yet to wear anything outside of the same three outfits he has on rotation. 

He could still make Sing something, there’s still enough time to if he acts fast enough, but it all comes back to the original question. Make what? 

_You’re stressing about this too much. You know him._

Know just how annoying Sing is, maybe. But nothing good enough to give a solid answer. 

He rattles his brain. Is there anything, _anything_ helpful in there, for the love of god— 

A specific moment, a specific Saturday. He and Shorter were planning to discuss some Chinatown business at Sing’s place, but at the last minute, for some reason or other, Shorter ended up unable to attend. So there Yut-Lung stood, alone, outside the threshold of Sing’s apartment. 

Sing led him inside, telling him to make himself at home, and Yut-Lung immediately complained about howmessy the apartment was. 

“Prick, not everyone has five hundred servants at their beck and call,” Sing snapped. 

He waved his hand dismissively, grimacing. “It doesn’t take servants to have a sense of _aesthetic,”_

“‘ _Sense of aesthetic_ ,’” Sing mocked, “like _you_ even know how to organize anything, you’ve never had to pick up after yourself in your life!” 

“Excuse me?! You—” 

Somehow, the bickering resulted in Yut-Lung helping Sing clean his bedroom. 

Sing’s room is messy, definitely, but upon closer inspection, it’s also… fascinating. A yo-yo collection is scattered atop his dresser. A pile of hoodies rests on his unmade bed. Posters of celebrities and musicians adorn the walls. Sing likes to pretend he’s into the rock bands Cain and Shorter like, but Yut-Lung’s seen his playlists. He’s a pop softie at heart. 

There’s a stack of red cups he finds on a bookshelf, and Sing recalls how, briefly, he was really into cupstacking until he realized that it wasn’t actually that cool. Yut-Lung holds back a snort. 

Sing’s weapon of choice, the twin kunai attached by a string, sit neatly on his desk. Sing first saw the weapon when he was a kid, watching martial arts movies with Lao, and lost his mind months later when he found out it was a real thing. He never swapped it out since. 

“I’ve always found your needles cool though,” Sing admits, “they remind me of, like, a spider’s bite,” 

Cool, huh? That warm, unfamiliar feeling grows in his chest again. 

There’s just so much _life_ , so much to learn about who Sing is by what he keeps with him. Yut-Lung’s room is barren by comparison. Just a bed with silk sheets, one nightstand, a lamp, and a desk. 

He’s never thought to decorate. For a long time, his room was never his to begin with. Just another thing to be scrubbed clean for the next man. Constantly reinventing himself in that space, dominating one night, submissive the next. There was never any room in there for just _him._

Eventually, he finds some card wedged beneath the bedframe and the wall while picking empty soda cans off the carpet. He plucks it out. It doesn’t look like a traditional playing card. 

Sing catches sight of it in his hands and his expression immediately brightens, “Shit, a yugioh card! And I thought Lao had gotten rid of all of them,” 

He hands Sing the card, raising an eyebrow. 

“I used to collect the _hell_ out of these children’s toys. Pokemon, transformers, I loved all that crap. I’d run around the grocery store with my mom and pick out whatever gimmicky toy they had at the cash register,” That fond expression again. 

Then Sing sighs, leaning back against the bedframe, “I got in a fight with Lao when I entered junior high, though. He got mad about me getting into more gang business. We argued for _hours_ and eventually he was like, ‘Well if you’re so grown up now, you won’t need _these_ anymore!’ and threw them all out. I was upset for like, a week, but eh,” he shrugs, “he kinda had a point,” 

Despite how tranquil Sing’s tone is by the end of his recollection, sparks of anger still flare under Yut-Lung’s skin. Did Lao _really_ have a point? He’s had his own experience with brothers tossing him around, wrecking his belongings as they saw fit. 

Sing gently runs his fingers over the creases on the piece of cardstock. “I probably could have sold those toys off to collectors if Lao hadn’t thrown them away. I’ve heard some of them go for hundreds of dollars now,” he whistles, then his tone softens, “I doubt it though. Too many memories.” 

He places the card back on the desk and they go back to sifting through more of Sing’s belongings. 

The day itself passes peacefully, Yut-Lung doing absolutely none of what he intended to do, yet somehow still content. But some residual bitterness sticks with him though, and he can’t place why. 

Sing still mentions stories from time to time, mirth in his voice, like _I used to skip classes to play trading cards in the parking lot. On windy days, we had to hold down the cards with pebbles so they wouldn’t blow away. A teacher ended up catching us though, and we weren’t allowed to bring them to school anymore. We tried making our own on notebook paper but it didn’t last very long since none of us could draw right._

Or, _When I was still small, Shorter used to bring action figures when he came over to play. We had this whole ongoing story about warriors battling forces of evil ninja demons. But one day, I accidentally dropped one of the figures down the stairs, and that thing shattered like glass. Totally unsalvageable. Apparently I was hysterical, sobbing because I didn’t get why my ninja demon didn’t work anymore, and Shorter had to explain the concept of death to me right then and there. We had a funeral on some random plot of dirt and all too!_

There’s seemingly no end to these stories, each one completely unique. But Sing always shakes his head after telling them, a look in his eyes like he’s older than he wants to be. 

_Don’t you miss it? Aren’t you scared?_

_You’re only going to be fifteen once._

Yut-Lung spent his fifteenth birthday having dinner with a man thrice his age. 

But despite everything Sing’s seen, he still has this childlike optimism Yut-Lung envies. Admires? And when that finally dissipates, he’ll mourn for it more than he ever did for his brothers. 

They’re growing older, and Yut-Lung doesn’t like it. They’ll be adults in just a few years and things are changing far too fast, but all Yut-Lung wants is for Sing to stay at armrest height for just a little longer. 

He doesn’t know anymore. 

He pulls out his phone. “Wu! I need you to order something. I don’t care _how_ , just make sure you get your hands on it.” 

* * *

Long silk robes flow at his feet. His hair is tied into an elaborate bun he spent at least an hour on, held up by a blue hairpin. He’s overdressed. 

It’s probably the nerves, this is the first birthday party he’s ever attended where he actually _wants_ to come. Or maybe Sing just needs to surround himself with people who make better fashion choices. 

Sing, notably, is wearing that stupid lucky sweater again. He agrees to step out of the party in Ash’s condo and meet him outside for a private moment, mostly because Yut-Lung can’t bear to give his present in front of an audience. 

Shorter notices them as they leave and gives Yut-Lung a thumbs up with an obnoxious grin. Yut-Lung pretends not to know him. 

The December night is frigid as expected, which is comforting. He’s banking on passing all this fidgeting as a typical shiver from the cold. 

Lights from the buildings above and the moon even higher are their only sources of light, but before they can linger on their surroundings for too long, Yut-Lung holds out a box. 

“Oh thank god,” Sing says as he lets out a tense breath, relief clear on his face, “Shorter said you were getting me a helicopter.” 

He scowls. That bastard, he should have slapped him harder. Frustratedly, his grip on the box tightens, jostling the contents inside. “Just open it.” 

Sing gives an amused look as he takes the box from his hands. 

Yut-Lung can’t seem to stop talking, hands clenched at his sides, “If you don’t like it, I’ll get you a better gift for Christmas,” 

Sing ignores him, a smart expression as he slides off the lid. Then, his face melts into a face of complete surprise. “Holy shit…” he murmurs, processing what he’s looking at, “are these beyblades?” 

He winces. God, it’s even more embarrassing hearing it out loud. Did he miscalculate? He’s being too selfish again, “Look, you can return them if—“ 

“ _No._ ” Sing interrupts, clutching the box tight, surprisingly protective, “I… you remembered?” 

“O-Of courseI remembered!” Yut-Lung says, defensive, “who do you take me for?!” 

Sing’s hands tremble slightly as he rifles through the assortment of collectibles, eyes misting and an undercurrent of giddiness in his voice, “Shit, how much did this even cost you? There’s like _, every_ modelin here,” 

“I didn’t know which one you wanted, okay!” 

“So you just went and got me all of them,” Sing huffs, amused. 

“Christ, you can just get a refund if you’re so insulted—“ 

Sing nearly topples Yut-Lung in a hug. 

“ _No_ ,” he says fiercely, muffled from his head buried in Yut-Lung’s chest, “It’s really sweet. I love it. Thank you.” 

They stay like that for one long moment, like he’s not a mafia boss and Sing’s not a gang member and they’re just two teenagers celebrating a birthday. But then they blink, and Sing quickly pulls back. 

“Shit, sorry,” he says, composing himself and rubbing at his eyes, “I know you don’t like being touched by people.” 

_No,_ Yut-Lung wants to say, _not if it’s you. After everything, you’re not just any person. Not to me._ But he finds his throat is suddenly too dry. 

Attention back on the box in his hands, Sing smiles. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want anything for my birthday. You really didn’t have to do anything,” he starts, and that’s just outrageous. Sing should demand more for himself. “but damn, I didn’t even know I still _wanted_ these until seeing them again.” _Didn’t know, or didn’t allow himself to?_ But Sing’s eyes are bright, and it’s exhilarating to have their undivided attention. 

Yut-Lung feels light with something that’s not quite pride, something better. “I suppose I simply know you better than you think,” 

Sing gives a challenging smirk. “Sure, but do you know anything about these?” he says, holding up one of the spinning tops painted blue and gold. 

“I believe it’s some kind of battle toy,” he supplies, “you’re supposed to spin them at each other in an enclosed space and the last toy standing wins,” He had spent around two minutes on the wikipedia page, but admittedly, his thoughts were distracted the entire time. 

“I mean, I _guess,”_ Sing shrugs, eyes fond as he rolls the toy around in his hands, “We never played it that way though. I don’t think I ever told you about when Nadia bought one of these for the three of us,” 

Yut-Lung relaxes. Sing’s delving into another one of his stories again. 

“What Nadia _neglected_ to buy, though, were those enclosed arena things you were talking about. We tried playing on the kitchen table for a while, but the tops would keep falling off before anything even happened. So, we figured, the kitchen _floor_ was hardwood, we could just play there,” 

Sing’s laughter came through as he spoke, “We called it ‘ankle beyblade’. We ran around that tiny kitchen trying not to get hit by those spinning bastards and the first person to quit from the pain lost. One time,” he starts, interrupted by his own laughing, “Shorter slammed his head into a table running away from one.” 

As ridiculous as the stories Sing always tells him are, Yut-Lung can imagine it. Just three kids who’s biggest worries in the world were some plastic spinning toys chasing after them. 

“ _Man_ , our feet were _bruised_. Nadia wasn’t spared either. She was still starting Chang Dai from the ground up at the time, so she spent a lot of time in the kitchen getting recipies down and had to dodge those stupid beyblades too. She might still be a little mad at us for that, actually,” 

Mentally, he gives Nadia his condolences. “That’s terrible. And _stupid_. You were already so reckless at such a young age?” 

Sing pouts, offended, “It was long ago that I didn’t even remember it until just now! I was just a kid!” 

“You still _are_ a kid, idiot,” he scoffs, but there’s no bite. Yut-Lung is smiling. 

He’s taken aback for a moment, placing the toy back with the others before nodding, voice light. “Yeah, I guess we are,” 

They slowly make their way back to the condo, breath coming in warm puffs like dragonfire. 

Sing’s eyes are still trained on his birthday gift, mesmerized as he sifts through the contents in the box. Yut-Lung keeps having to pull Sing by the hoodie out of walking into a lamppost or oncoming traffic. 

“There’s enough for, like, everybody in here,” Sing murmurs before looking up at him, “Yue, you should play ankle beyblade with me and the rest of the gang sometime.” 

Yut-Lung squawks indignantly and shoves him in mock outrage. Sing doubles over in laughter. 

“Absolutely _not!”_

**Author's Note:**

> YUT LUNG AND SING’S BIRTHDAYS ARE NOT ACTUALLY JUNE 30 AND DECEMBER 18 I MADE THAT UP!!!!
> 
> this fic is dedicated 2 the lesbians 4 yut lung gc & anyone whos ever had to hear me talk about yut lung mwah mwah <3 thanks for reading comment if you want. or dont. im not a cop. nor am i a writer i am a [drawer](https://twitter.com/idriyato/status/1357776081751666689) u can go look at my art :^) thank u


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